His eyes are the same cold blue I remember, the color of arctic ice. No warmth exists there, no hint of paternal affection. Just calculation and control, watching me like I’m another asset to be managed.
“You look tired, Ano.” I use his first name deliberately, watching it hit its mark. A muscle twitches in his jaw—the same tell I remember from childhood. “Running a trafficking empire must be exhausting.”
He takes another sip of scotch, the crystal catching light as he moves. The familiar scent of cedar and tobacco clings to his tailored suit, mixing with that artificial jasmine air freshener he still uses. The combination turns my stomach.
“Eight years,” he muses, studying me over the rim of his glass. “And you still haven’t learned respect.”
“Respect?” The word tastes bitter. “You beat that out of me long ago. Along with any illusion that you were worthy of it.”
His answering smile is serpentine, familiar in its cruelty. The expression pulls at new wrinkles around his mouth, deepening shadows that age has carved into his features. But his posture remains rigid, imperial—a king in his castle, untouchable and unmoved by my defiance.
He laughs, the sound as hollow as the man himself. “Bold words from someone whose lover is bleeding in my basement.”
I don’t flinch, though my heart screams for Remy. “Still hiding behind other people’s pain? Some things never change.”
The mahogany desk between us gleams like spilled blood in the lamplight. Ano’s cigar smoke coils through the air, a poisonous reminder of countless nights spent trembling before his judgment. My fingers brush the edge of his desk—smooth, perfect, just like the lies he’s built his empire on.
“You could have had everything,” he says, voice dripping with disappointment. “My empire, the connections, the respect your position demands.” His fingers drum against the leather armrest of his chair. “Instead, you chose to play vengeful reporter for nothing. A stupid quest.”
I taste copper on my tongue, fury building with each patronizing word. The study closes in around us, decades of power concentrated in first editions, Ming vases, and that damn Monet on the wall.
“Low profile?” I spit the words back at him. “Like Mother kept a low profile while you broke her piece by piece?”
His eyes narrow, arctic cold. “Your mother was weak. I expected better from you.”
“Better?” The laugh tears from my throat. “You mean more controllable. More willing to ignore the bodies you’ve buried under your success.”
He rises, and for a moment, I’m eight years old again. But I’m not that child anymore. I hold my ground as he circles the desk.
“Stupid quest, you call it?” My voice stays steady despite the rage burning in my chest. “Those girls you traffic have names. Families. Dreams. Just like Mother had before you destroyed her.”
“Business is business, Eve.” His casual tone makes my skin crawl. “The world runs on supply and demand. I simply facilitate—”
“You facilitate nightmares,” I cut him off. “You package human beings like cattle and sell them to monsters who wear suits just like yours.”
He stops before me, close enough that I smell the alcohol on his breath. “And what do you think exposing this will accomplish? You’ll destroy thousands of jobs and partnerships built over decades. For what? Some misguided sense of justice?”
I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch from the coldness there. “You’ve twisted our family blood into poison, Father. I’ve returned to cut it out.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Such dramatic flair. You’ve inherited your mother’s… theatrical tendencies.”
The tension coils tighter as I face him, my fists clenched so hard my nails bite into my palms. Memories surge like a tide—Mother’s quiet sobs echoing through these same walls, the careful way she’d cover bruises with makeup, her trembling hands as she’d smooth my hair.
“Why did you kill her?” The accusation tears from my throat, sharp enough to cut.
His expression shifts, irritation crackling beneath his practiced calm.
I step closer, refusing to yield an inch. “What drove you to destroy her, abuse her?” My voice shakes with fury. “Was shejust a pawn you used to expand your empire? Or was she a trophy you flaunted to elites who demanded perfection?”
His eyes meet mine, cold and calculating. “Your mother was charming, yes, and beautiful—I could sell that.” Disdain drips from each word. “But charm fades, Eve.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my skin crawl. “She thought she could leave without consequences. That her womanly whims might hold power over me.”
Bile rises in my throat. The familiar scent of his cologne—cedar and spice—threatens to choke me. I shake my head slowly, disgust twisting my features. “She was never a whim. She was my mother.” The words come out raw, years of pain bleeding through. “You thought you owned her—body and soul. And you couldn’t stand the idea of her breaking free.”
His eyes narrow at my defiance, something dark and volatile roiling beneath his composed facade. The dim light catches the crystal tumbler in his hand, throwing fractured shadows across his face. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken accusations and bitter truths.
The study’s walls press closer, the air thick with decades of lies and violence. I force myself to stand taller, channeling every ounce of rage that’s fueled me since that night.
“You think you can hide behind your wealth and power? You think that will shield you? I might have been a child when I found her…” My voice catches, memories of Mother’s broken body flooding back. I swallow hard, refusing to let him see me cry. “But every day since then, I’ve been haunted by the weight of her absence—your betrayal!”
